


Substitute

by Nyssa



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-03
Updated: 2010-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:32:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyssa/pseuds/Nyssa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Huggy pinch-hits for Hutch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Substitute

Like I ain't got enough troubles, ol' Blue Eyes is back, big as ever and just as hot.

Not _that_ blue eyes, the _other_ Blue Eyes. With capitals, you dig? The curly-top one. My old buddy from way back. He's more than enough to handle on his own without draggin' the Blond God into bed with us, too. Yeah, I know. That's the whole reason he's here.

We're at my pad, which I gotta admit beats the hell outta restaurant storerooms. Never did like gettin' humped on the floor in between the flour and the tomato sauce. I like my comfort, you dig? So this time I told him, Bro, you wanna do it, we do it in a bed. Easier on the tailbone, and we can take a little cat nap after. Assuming you don't jump up soon as we're done and take off like a bat outta hell to find the B.G. He said, "Sure, Hug, whatever you want."

He's different this time around, though. Used to be, it was just bangin', you know? We'd just smack together like bumper cars, rubbin' it off fast as we could, or I'd suck on him for a while till he couldn't take it no more and then he'd yank my pants down and shove it in. Hey, it was okay with me. You get meat like that maybe once in a lifetime, and I was gettin' it once a week, regular, sometimes more if we could squeeze it into our schedules. We both work funny hours.

Now he's slower. I don't mean he's gettin' old and limp, 'cause he ain't, and neither am I. We both had fine wood right outta the gate. But he ain't in as much of a hurry to do anything about it. He's layin' on top of me, _kissin_ ' me. He kisses good, but that ain't the point. Don't get me wrong, I love him like a blood brother. But kissin' was never part of our repertoire, you dig? I keep trying to turn my head away, but he keeps pullin' it back, sayin', "C'mon, Hug, c'mon, just a little, just a little." Man, it is freakin' me _out_. I don't know what him and the B.G. got down to behind closed doors, but I ain't the B.G., you know? Far, far from it.

He finally gives up on the face suckin', but before I can get started breathing again, he's headed south, down my chest, kissin' all the way, and I can't fuckin' believe it, but yeah, there he goes, he's got a mouthful o' Bear, and he ain't never done _that_ before. I probably should fight him like I did about the kissing, but I ain't _that_ stupid. All I can say is, "What the _fuck_ , Starsky?" but his mouth's busy and he don't answer. He does it good, real good, good as a whore, but just for a few seconds. Then he raises his head and looks me right in the eye and says, "You taste good, Hug. Before, I didn't know."

I figure I know who clued him in to the glories of givin' head, but I'm panting too hard to make any cracks about chocolate and vanilla. I grab hold of myself and rub a little, 'cause _he_ ain't doing it, but then he asks, with this funny note in his voice, "You wanna fuck me?" and I hope my eyes don't pop right outta my head, but it damn sure feels like they will.

"Okay," I say, "okay, what the _hell_ is happenin' here? You get a complete personality transplant, my brother? Hutch wave a magic wand over you, or -- "

He jerks back like I just throwed something at him. "This ain't about Hutch," he says, real snappish, and if that ain't bullshit I never smelled none. Everything's always about Hutch. When he fucks me it's about Hutch, when he don't it's about Hutch, when he eats and sleeps and breathes it's about Hutch. B.G, B.G., B.G.

"I ain't fuckin' you," I say. "Man, you are weirding me out so bad I'm lucky I ain't shrunk down to a nub. You wiggle that shiny white ass at me and I _know_ I will."

He looks like he can't think of anything to say to that. Maybe nobody ever got turned off by his ass before.

"Starsky," I say, "what the hell is wrong with you? Why can't we just do like we used to? You've changed, man, and I don't like change. It upsets my digestion."

"I'm just tryin' to be good to ya! Hutch always -- " He shuts up quick and looks away from me.

I keep from laughing, but just barely. He looks back and sees me fightin' it, and his mouth gets real tight. Uh-oh.

"Fuck you, Hug," he says, and gets up. "You don't wanna do it, we won't do it. I thought -- fuck it." He grabs his jeans off the floor and jams his legs into 'em real hard.

"Who said I didn't wanna do it? I just don't wanna wear a blond wig and whiteface while we're doin' it." Yeah, I know, that's what I always did -- metaphorically speaking, you understand -- and I never complained before. But damn, you gotta leave a man _some_ pride.

He sits down hard on the side of the bed, and stares at the wall. He looks flat-out miserable all of a sudden, and -- me bein' me and him bein' him -- I feel sorry for him.

I sit up and touch his back. "Hey, brother, why don't you get your head straight? Make up your mind if you still want him or not, and leave me out of it. I ain't got nothin' to do with this. It's all about you and him."

He don't say nothing for a minute, just looks straight ahead. Then he says, "I don't know if he wants me."

"You thought about askin' him?"

His voice gets real quiet. "It's not like it used to be, Hug. We don't really talk much anymore."

I sigh and lay back down. "Well, _start_ talkin'. To him, not me. I ain't Dear Abby. But I'll tell ya this. He was in my place last night soakin' up the booze like he'd heard there was a shortage about to start."

He turns and stares at me. "He was?"

"Mm-hm. Now I don't know, maybe he was feelin' blue about the stock market or the ozone layer or the crisis in the Middle East. But I'd bet my Aunt Flossie's crocheted doilies it had somethin' to do with your sorry ass."

"You didn't ask him?"

"Hey, I got a restaurant to run! I can't be psychoanalyzing every drunk that comes along. I said Hey Hutch and he said Leave me the fuck alone, Hug, so I did."

He looks real thoughtful. Cops _can_ think sometimes; they just don't always remember to. "He shouldn't drink like that," he says softly. "It's not good for him. Makes him depressed."

"He looked plenty depressed."

He hesitates a minute. "Maybe he's home right now," he says. "We're off today. Maybe I should go see him."

"Maybe you should, since you obviously ain't interested in finishing what you started here." I put an arm over my eyes. "Get out, why doncha, so I can jerk off in peace."

"Huggy -- " His voice is real gentle now. "I'm sorry, pal." I'm about to tell him, yeah, he's sorry all right, but then he puts a hand on my dick and starts workin' it the way he used to, the way I like, real fast and hard and steady, and I can't tell him anything but to keep goin'. I come like I ain't had it in weeks, and I have. God, he's good at that. I don't know what the hell went wrong between him and the B.G., but I bet it wasn't the sex.

I start to reach for him, 'cause it's only fair, but he just pushes my hand away and stands up. He's still got wood there, plenty of it, so I guess he figures on giving it to the B.G. instead. It's a cruel world, baby.

"I'm gonna talk to him, Hug." He slides into his shoes -- he don't take his socks off when he fucks; funniest thing you ever saw, them red socks and him buck naked everywhere else -- and pulls his shirt on. "I don't know if he still -- " He stops, and I see him swallow. "I don't know how he feels, but I -- well, you know."

I sigh. "Yeah, I know. You go give him a great big kiss. Melt that lame-ass mustache right offa his face."

He looks down at me, grinning lopsided like he does. "Do my best. See ya, Hug." And he's gone.

I let out a deep breath and close my eyes. He don't have to plow my ass to wear me out. Just a little foolin' around with him's enough. He soaks up all the energy in the room. And I got a girl to interview for a waitress job, and a whole shipment of booze to receive and sign for, and accounts to do, and I don't know what all. All before six o'clock.

While him and the B.G are huggin' and kissin' and cryin' and havin' Richter scale-registering make-up sex.

Shit.


End file.
